Legends in their Youth
by pinkfloyd1770
Summary: Kenny held onto Mysterion into his adult life. He thought he'd taken a young, aimless Craig and molded him into a successor. When their partnership starts to show strains, he offers an even more impressionable Stan the opportunity to fight against his parents' killers. Superhero AU. Future slash and het.


This is the product of reading too many Dick Grayson/Jason Todd fics, and one too many visits to UChicago to drink with old friends. Also I wanted to write about Kenny and Craig kicking ass. These chapters will be pretty short, maybe 2k-4k words apiece, since I'm not really planning on this being a tightly connected, overarching epic. There is a plot, surprisingly, and even a general conflict. Go figure. Pairings...are numerous and spread across time. Kenny gets around in this. He's by no means promiscuous in the usual sense of the word, but he's quite concerned with the comfort and well being of those around him. Also Cryde. Possibly Kyle/Christophe. Also, there will be violence. And whatever fight scenes I can cobble together. Also I have tumblr. Username is jorgesborges. Enjoy my ramblings.

* * *

The blood. Always the blood. Rusting streaks crisscrossed the ground and walls, thin, sharp lines and drying sputters, dark in the sodium lights. Brick, mortar and concrete lost their fortitude, ready to crumble under the weight of the slumped bodies.

Kenny checked four necks, felt four pulses. Weak and fluttering. One man might need a transfusion, but it was the best Kenny could hope for. He rose and tilted his head toward the left rooftop, five stories above.

"You didn't have to use knives. These guys didn't even draw their guns."

"I've always used knives. I don't know why you're suddenly surprised." Next second Craig flipped off the ledge, his fall aborted inches from the ground as the cable went taut.

"Hand grips seem to be working well," Kenny noted as his partner released the rope and touched down.

Craig hummed noncommittally. He wore no cape, his lithe figure sheathed in fluidly connected carbide plates, all matte black except for twin blue lines slanting along the pauldrons. His blades glinted at his waist as he turned to face the bodies.

"Those two on the right. They've been giving me hell for months. Kept throwing underlings at me, leaving dead trails." He cracked his neck. "Feels good to be done with this shit."

Kenny turned a steady gaze on Craig.

"You haven't even called an ambulance."

Craig had already cleared half the alley, his steps long and languid.

"That's your department. I left the important witnesses basically untouched, but O'Connor can bleed out, for all I care."

Kenny growled, "We do _not _kill indiscriminately, least of all because you're feeling pissy."

"Shallow cuts. I barely nicked him, avoided the carotid and jugular. He'll be fine unless you leave him there. And you won't." Kenny noticed the tincture rise of Craig's shoulders; he wanted to rattle him, slam him against the aging brick if only to grab his attention, but he already had the phone in his hand.

"Yeah. We've got the evidence. Physical. Audio." Kenny knelt next to O'Connor, saw two almost parallel notches cut into the skin just above his collar bone, blood seeping slowly and steadily.

"You're going to need to send an ambulance along with the squad car." Kenny stared at Craig. He was leaning against the opposite building, arms crossed, mind and body tightly and finely coiled.

"Tell the medics to be ready for blood." Kenny ended the call and walked to Craig, stopped in front of him and stared, grey reflected against blue. Steel and sky. They used to say that.

"Well?" Craig asked. Kenny couldn't see Craig's eyebrows rise behind his mask, but they did. He simply knew.

Kenny didn't say anything. Silence wasn't difficult when he wore the suit, when he could ensconce himself in the personality, in Mysterion. He might smile in the face of disaster and danger, even laugh in the aftermath of a barely successful mission, but Mysterion never indulged himself in the excess of chatter.

Blackscythe didn't differentiate between his waking and dormant personality. That barrier had always been permeable, maybe even non-existent, the costume just a layer of physical protection.

"Wanna stick around for the police?" Craig pushed off against the wall, his chest almost bumping into Kenny's.

Kenny didn't move. "You use knives. Fine. You break arms and legs. Fine. You want a quick and easy solution to every case we have. Take off the mask, hand in the suit, and go live a regular life. There's your simple answer."

Craig's mouth parted and his eyes widened. His body loosened, arms slack and chest exposed, like when he was seventeen, aimless and...

Terrified.

Kenny almost reached out, with body and soul, and Mysterion vanished for an instant, in a spasm of memory.

"No."

Kenny's hand froze at the word, at the trembling timber that cracked through the cold certainty of Craig's voice. His eyes were wild beneath his mask, rage and fear coupled to a fearsome intelligence. Mysterion regained control again, quickly enough to gaze unflinchingly into the roiling chaos. He lowered his hand, so close to Craig's face, and they walked side by side in silence, the only sound the dirt and rocks churning beneath their boots.

They'd left the car, The Attack Mobile, as Christophe dubbed it, parked in an alley a few blocks away, clandestinely accessible without moving by rooftop. By mutual agreement, it was designed with as simple an exterior as possible, aerodynamics and protection a top priority. Christophe and his team had simply taken a normal car and restructured it, replacing the chassis with a single structure made of carbon fiber, the exterior made of interlocking plates of a titanium alloy that Kenny had heard far too much about. At a glance, at night, the car could pass for civilian make, desperately embellished and stupidly appointed.

And if there was any offense, cosmic or otherwise that was taken from the design of their car, it was currently expressed in the form of a wiry, black haired boy frantically beating the windshield with a two by four.

Craig stopped first; he glanced at Kenny, eyes clear and calm, the implacable resolve of years past still alive.

Kenny shook his head lightly. Even a strong, fully grown man couldn't damage the car with a weapon like that. The boy's motion slowed after a time, his breath heavy and harsh, sweat staining his black shirt. He finally lowered his arms hung his head, body slumping forward like an automaton spent of energy.

Craig shifted. The sound reached the boy and he startled, eyes wide and body tense. He clutched the board in two hands, rested its length against his shoulder as though it bore great weight. First he looked to Craig, then Kenny; his eyes narrowed, and he smacked the hood of the car, raised the stick just as sharply and stood, head tilted in defiance.

Kenny walked forward, his cape swishing with each step.

"Do you have a problem with my car?" His tone was flat and neutral, bordering on indifferent.

The boy sneered. "You don't deserve to wear that mask. And you sure as hell don't deserve the car."

Craig snorted. He hadn't expected any sort of ideological anger, just plain, unfocused rage. He could at least identify with the former.

"Why?" All seriousness. All intensity. Craig would have laughed, if not for his own curiosity.

The boy swung the board at Kenny's head in answer. It snapped in half against the side of Kenny's gloved hand.

"You're fast." Kenny examined his hand, as though it could have been damaged through the layers of tightly coiled fibers.

The abrupt impact had staggered the boy, threatened his balance. He took two shaky steps against the metal of the car, stared at the splintered end of his weapon, tossed it aside, and glared at Kenny.

"I'm not afraid of you."

"Obviously."

Mysterion sounded distracted, thrown into some far flung corner of his mind; he moved to the front of the car, his hands clenching and relaxing to a rhythm.

"What's your name?" He asked suddenly, his thoughts finely focused once more.

"Stan." And Stan exuded nothing but pride with his announcement, pride and defiance as though it were his name carved into the sky and stamped across plastic chests and latex costumes.

"Stan. All right. Are you the son of one of Coon's gang?"

Stan leaped off the hood and aimed a punch at Kenny; he hit air and stumbled. When he turned, his eyes were bright with tears.

"My parents are dead. My parents were killed walking back from the grocery store, when Coon's thugs opened fire on some rival gang, and they were caught in the crossfire." Stan abruptly stood straight, and for a breath Criag expected another failed punch. Instead Stan's face twisted, calmed, and he stared straight up at Kenny.

"You could have put Coon down all along, but you just let him run around and kill people."

"We're not assassins," Kenny said flatly, simply, as though that closed the matter.

"You're not heroes either."

Craig laughed. Kenny gave him a sharp stare. Stan looked murderous.

"We never said we were heroes. Everyone else decided to do that."

"Then what are you?"

Craig shrugged. "Who knows?" He waved his hand at Kenny. "Ask him."

Kenny didn't speak. He'd placed his attention on Stan again, as though appraising an exotic, risky purchase; his eyes burned brightly.

"Oh Christ," Craig muttered. He walked to the passenger door. The seat had changed since five years prior. The whole car had changed, since he'd first been allowed inside, when he'd had to contain both his fear and elation. The full moon had shone that night; now the sky was black.

"What?" Stan's glared hadn't subsided, and he trained in on Craig as though convinced it could hurt him.

"What will you do, Stan? Are you going to try to go after Coon next? He won't be as forgiving of attempted vandalism against his property. Or are you planning on using something more dangerous than a wood board?"

Stan stalled in his rebuke; he lowered his eyes and spoke quietly.

"He doesn't deserve to live. None of them do."

"And you're going to make sure they all get what they deserve, right?" Kenny asked as though expecting an affirmation, sounded almost excited by the prospect of the answer.

"They deserve to die," Stan muttered. "And I..." His voice was thick. "I'm going to do it."

"You're going to what?" Again Kenny urged, encouraged; his voice had a soothing quality to it , blended perfectly to soften its harsh, cold authority.

Craig frowned. This was Kenny leaking in, meshing with Mysterion. Kenny as he might talk during a meeting, when he wanted to turn the room against a detractor, when he flirted with that same rival's wife or girlfriend within his sight. This was an unfair, deadly weapon against his current opponent.

Stan cleared his throat. He swallowed. "Kill him. Coon. His gang."

"How?"

Stan stopped again, shifted his weight, bit his lip. Rubbed his neck.

"My uncle. He has...he has guns. For hunting. I could..." He looked down, his lips tight. "I could use them."

"Have you ever fired a gun?"

Stan shook his head.

"Hm. How about using a knife?" Now Kenny lowered his voice, conspiratorially. "Quick cuts. Here and here." He drew stilleto in a flash, tapped Stan's neck on either side with it, tagging his arteries, leaned in closely. "You'd feel the blood on your face. Taste it. Smell it. That'd be pretty satisfying, wouldn't you say?"

Stan turned pale, pride and anger replaced by bald fear, his eyes still wide, yet seemingly small in the face of Kenny's stature.

"And you'd need to be quick. More brutal. You could move between people's legs, slash their tendons. I'd recommend a good hunting knife, the kind you'd use to skin a deer. Your uncle probably has a few of those. Smooth and serrated edge. For tendons, one quick, hard motion with the clean edge will do the trick. Yeah." Kenny nodded rapidly. Stan took a step back.

"Stop." Craig ground out.

Kenny paused. Stan startled and stared at him.

"Stan." Craig walked around the car, knelt before the boy but didn't touch him. No. He couldn't give comfort through touch.

"What if I...if we helped you? Not to kill, but to fight." He remembered the exact words, but he wouldn't use them.

Stan hesitated. "You mean?" He glanced at Kenny, shy now, as if Craig was all that stood between him and a cruel death.

Kenny nodded. "This isn't an offer to assist in revenge. I'm not interested in that, and if that's all you're after, I can't help you."

Stan shuddered suddenly. "I'd be like...you." He nodded at Craig. "And you."

"If only in theory." He stood beside Craig, who rose, though didn't break eye contact with Stan. Kenny offered his hand, a first proper introduction.

Stan didn't take it. "I don't want to be like you two. I want..." His voice died.

Kenny still offered his hand. "You don't know. That's fine. Whatever you want to do though, you're not ready. And I'd rather help you reach the right decision, before it's too late, before you're dangerous and don't have a path."

Stan shook his head. "If I said yes, what would happen? I couldn't leave my uncle and my sister." His voice trembled, seemingly at the prospect of deserting his last remaining family.

"You'd stay with them. And work with us. After school job. Easy enough to pull off."

"Yeah," Craig muttered. "Easy."

Kenny ignored him. His offer still hung in the air, its literal manifestation yet to be grasped. They stood in silence, the speeding of cars, the blaring of sirens and distant shouts receding into a background of white noise. Stan wiped his hands on the front of his pants. He scratched at his cheek viciously, compulsively. Finally, he reached forward and grasped Kenny's hand. His grip tightened only after Kenny's fingers closed around his hand.

Kenny smiled for the first time that night.

"Happy to have you."

"And that's the first and only time you'll hear that from him." Craig didn't move, even as Kenny opened the car door and let Stan in. He'd have to crouch in the storage compartment. A good indication of things to come, if he stuck with them.

After Stan had gotten in, and Craig was sure he wouldn't hear, he turned to Kenny, appraised him.

"And now we're both lying bastards."

Kenny sighed. He sounded tired. Another first for the night.

"Just trust me like you used to. Please."

He didn't wait for a response, and Craig wouldn't have been able to give one.


End file.
